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“What did she write?” I ask as he positions the pencil on the paper under her words.
“She is asking if we can write,” he tells me. “It will allow us to communicate for now until we are more proficient with her sign language.”
He writes something under the words, in a heavier script with more jagged edges.
There is so much variation that it is hard to tell if there are any of the same letters in what she has written compared to what he has written.
“And what have you written?” I ask.
“That I can write, and I will translate for you all.”
He passes the pad and pencil back to her and she smiles at him after she reads it.
“Alina told me you liked to read, when you were young,” she says.
Scar nods, making the “yes” gesture with his hand at the same time.
“I like to read,” she admits. “I always enjoyed fairytales. What were your favorites?”
It is no surprise to me that they share a common interest. They were both raised by the same person, after all. Scar’s mother seems to enjoy books. There are some stacked under the coffee table, and the more I look around, the more I see. There is even one hidden under the lamp table at my side.
I pick it up and look at the cover.
A young, dark-haired woman is in the arms of a devious looking man, her body giving off obvious signs of arousal while he gazes down at her chest. She is not naked, but she might as well be, for all the coverage her clothing is providing her body.
I hold to book up to Scar. “What is this, exactly?”
It does not look informative in any meaningful way.
Scar snorts as he glances at it, barely pausing as he answers Lita’s question in writing.
“That is a romance novel. It is a fictional account of two lovers uniting.”
“A fictional account?” I do not understand. “What is the point of that?”
“The point is to be entertained,” he explains. “To go on the journey with the characters almost as if you are experiencing the things that they are going through.”
“So, you would read this to enjoy yourself?”
He smiles as he turns the pad back to Lita.
“I have read several romance novels, and they were quite informative about what a woman wants.”
I blink at him, taking it in and trying to remember a time when he passed that information on to us.
I don’t think he ever mentioned anything. Perhaps because until recently it was highly unlikely that we would ever meet a woman to need that kind of information.
“Beauty and the Beast is one of my favorites, too,” Lita tells him with a smile.
Her voice sounds warmer now, as if she is pleased.
She has found a way to connect with Scar that has shown her they have even more in common than they might have thought. I cannot help but feel a little jealous. I do not have any favorite books. I do not know how to read or write.
There is no reason for her to be interested in me.
I am not unique or special. I am just Scar’s brother.
“Did you ever tell stories in … Where you grew up?” she asks, glancing at me.
